


Into a Room Where It's Nine In the Afternoon

by kyrene



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yusuf needs to be more careful where he puts his experimental compounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into a Room Where It's Nine In the Afternoon

"Arthur." Ariadne sounded hurried, breathless. "We need you at the warehouse. As quick as you can get here."

Because it was Ariadne and because she had called him on his cell phone while he had been out on surveillance -- a time when everyone knew better than to bother him save for emergencies -- Arthur returned to the warehouse as quickly as his rental car and the local speed restrictions could get him.

He approached the building with caution, but since Ariadne would have warned him away from it or communicated the fact that he would need a weapon if there had been any active danger, he wasn't too worried. Concerned. Curious as to why she had summoned him here. But not worried.

He rethought this assurance a little when he entered the warehouse and found that there was evidently no one there.

It wouldn't have been a prank; Ariadne had a quirky sense of humor but she was also well aware of how serious this job was. She had called him here, and had specifically said " _we_ need you", indicating that there was someone other than herself there. Which only made sense, seeing as they were all working hard, getting their individual tasks completed and ready to go, needing to have everything sewed up before they embarked on the biggest dreamshare heist any of them had ever heard of, much less participated in.

Which made it even stranger that there didn't seem to be anyone here.

He was just wondering whether he should call out for Ariadne, the paranoid side of him telling him not to, while the logical side of him thinking that it should be okay, when the young woman in question appeared out of nowhere.

"Oh, Arthur," she said, sounding more pleased than relieved, hurrying to his side and taking his arm. "I'm so glad you came."

Arthur frowned faintly. "You said you needed me?" It didn't seem urgent, and he'd been on _surveillance_.

"Come with me," she instructed, already tugging.

Since he didn't have any better ideas and since he trusted Ariadne -- even if he was potentially a little irked with her right now -- Arthur followed, bemused now, rather than concerned.

"What's going on?" he asked, but she immediately shushed him. His frown deepened. She was leading him toward the small bathroom in the back of the warehouse that they had all agreed it was vital to clean and keep in good repair. "Did another bird get in here?"

"No. Now hush," she hissed, shooting him a fierce look that said she meant it. So Arthur hushed. He was a smart enough man to know when and where to pick his battles. This was neither the time nor the place.

If it _was_ another bird, though, they were going to have some words.

It wasn't a bird, he discovered as she carefully cracked the door open and gestured for him to look inside.

He had to squint for a moment, partially because the bathroom lights were out, so that the only illumination came from the open door, and partially because he was having trouble making sense of what he did see once his pupils adjusted.

What it _looked_ like... was that Eames was sitting on the floor beside the sink, in a white undershirt instead of the short sleeved mustard yellow shirt with the light diamond pattern and the collar unbuttoned too far down his chest to look professional that he'd had on when Arthur had left the warehouse. The blue slacks were still the same, although Arthur noticed that they were dark around the cuffs and Eames had bare feet, his expensive loafers, and evidently his socks as well, missing.

What confused him the most, though, was the fact that Yusuf was sitting beside Eames, crosslegged on the tiles floor -- which had thankfully seen enough bleach recently that the sight of it didn't make Arthur cringe, much -- holding one of his hands over Eames' eyes.

Yusuf glanced over his shoulder, his expression equal parts worried and guilty, and raised his free hand to his lips. Shushing Arthur.

Arthur frowned more deeply, taking note that while Yusuf had his hand in front of Eames' eyes, shielding them from the light coming in through the cracked door, he was being very careful not to touch the man's face. Yusuf's hand hovered close enough that it was barely noticeable, but Arthur was the best for a reason, and he noticed.

While Arthur stood there, trying to process what he was seeing, Yusuf whispered something to Eames, so softly that if he hadn't been able to see his lips moving, Arthur wouldn't have had any idea he was doing so. He didn't think that Eames responded, and that was when he realized that the forger was sitting completely still. Completely. And Eames was never still, was always in motion. If it hadn't been for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he might just as well have been made of stone.

That was easily the most disturbing thing about this whole strange situation so far, Arthur thought.

Even though Eames hadn't spoken or even nodded, Yusuf seemed to be reassured, and he smoothly retrieved his hand, rising to his feet with a grace that Arthur found mildly surprising. What _didn't_ surprise him was the fact that Eames had had his eyes closed behind Yusuf's hand. He didn't open his eyes, didn't so much as twitch as Yusuf stood and padded over to the door, silent in his stocking feet.

Arthur stepped back, allowing Yusuf to exit the bathroom, and Yusuf closed the door behind him, as carefully and quietly as he had done everything up to this point.

"What's going on?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice down but unable to restrain himself from asking.

 _This_ seemed to be okay, although Yusuf did motion for Arthur to follow him a few steps away from the door before he replied. "While you were out, there was a small... accident."

"Accident?" Arthur ran through several possibilities but came up blank, unable to imagine anything that would result in Eames hiding in the bathroom, in the dark, stripped to his undershirt, sitting so _still_.

"What he means," Ariadne volunteered dryly, "Is that a certain chemist put some very volatile, very dangerous compounds on the top shelf of the cupboard we keep the coffee and tea in, a little too near the edge, with the lid not properly fastened."

Yusuf looked hangdog and said nothing in protest. Not that sounded as though he'd have had a leg to stand on anyway. "It was my mistake," he admitted mournfully.

"Wait," Arthur frowned, his pulse jumping as he fixed on what he considered to be the most vital part of Ariadne's explanation. "Dangerous?"

Ariadne glowered at Yusuf, who hastened to explain. "It was an experimental mixture. I'm working on increasing the lucidity of our dreams, and that was the compound I was going to add to the latest batch of the sedative."

"And this means?" Arthur asked sharply. Now that he knew what he was dealing with, his professional instincts kicked in, and he wanted to know everything, every detail, so that he had some idea of what he might do about it.

So that he knew how worried to be about Eames.

"This means that Eames has gotten a powerful dose of a drug that intensifies all of his senses," Yusuf supplied. "He's in an altered state. _Everything_ is going to over-stimulate him."

"He was almost unconscious before we figured it out and got him into the bathroom," Ariadne added, her mouth turning down at the corners. At least it looked as though she was taking this memory seriously, even if she seemed largely blase about the rest of the situation.

Arthur was silent, processing this.

"And now we need you to take him back to the hotel," she continued. "Make sure he's safe somewhere that it's quiet and dark."

"What?" Arthur stared at her. "That's why you called me here?"

She had the good grace to look moderately sheepish. "Well, we figured you'd have the best chance of keeping him quiet, keeping him still."

"And you couldn't explain this to me before you dragged me all the way to the bathroom?" Arthur asked, exasperated despite the fact that he really was a little worried about Eames.

"I hoped that if you saw how pathetic he looked, you'd feel sorry for him and be more inclined to help," Ariadne admitted, and she obviously tried hard to look contrite, but her lips kept twitching up at the corners.

Arthur shook his head. "Why should it be me?" he asked, schooling his features to as high a level of sternness as he could manage without actually looking angry. "Why not one of you?"

"I can't do it," Yusuf replied immediately. "I need to work on finding a way to reverse this. It will wear off given time, but I'm hoping I can come up with something more quickly, so that Eames doesn't have to suffer any longer than necessary."

"Suffer?" Arthur asked sharply. Yusuf had made it sound more like an inconvenience than anything else, which was the only reason he wasn't biting the chemist's head off right now.

Not that he wasn't still considering it. They were cutting things close on this job as it was; especially with Maurice Fischer's failing health, the fact that the man could die at any moment. Being _three_ men down, with Eames drugged, Yusuf trying to concoct an antidote for his own error instead of continuing to work on the Somnacin compound they would be using on the job, and Arthur having to babysit... well, that wasn't an ideal allocation of manpower, no matter how one looked at it.

"Not suffering, per se," Yusuf hastened to clarify, waving his hands, his dark eyes rounded. "But right now everything is so intense for Eames that any loud noises, any bright lights, any heavy touches... those would be painful. That is why we have to keep him quiet, somewhere dark, somewhere safe."

Arthur took a moment to consider that, but it sounded workable. And, yes, Yusuf would need to get an antidote brewed up as quickly as possible, if it was possible at all. He hoped that it was. "And you can't do it, because?" he asked Ariadne, quirking a brow. "I was running surveillance, remember."

Ariadne wrinkled her nose at him, and Arthur reflected once again on the fact that she looked as though she should still be in high school rather than attending college in Paris. "I'm still working on the hospital in Eames' dream level," she informed him tartly. "And you were just watching the Fischer Morrow building to have something to do; Robert isn't even in France." She stuck her thumbs in her belt loops, giving him an arch look that dared him to argue with her. "Besides, you know that Eames is most likely to be good for you."

Arthur scowled, but Ariadne had a point. Although he kind of thought that Eames would be more likely to be "good" in order to keep his eyes from feeling as though they would melt out of his skull, than because of anything Arthur could do or say. Still, if he could make the man more comfortable while he was under the effects of the compound, he was willing to give it his best effort.

"All right," Arthur growled. "So, how I am supposed to get him back to the hotel?"

Ariadne and Yusuf exchanged a quick glance.

"We... uh, hadn't thought about that part," Ariadne admitted reluctantly.

Arthur sighed.

+++

Of course Arthur got Eames back to the hotel. Because he was Arthur and he got things done; that was what he did. That didn't mean it was easy. Because it wasn't. But once he had a goal in mind, he always made sure that it happened.

He understood the missing shirt now, along with the wet hair that he hadn't noticed in the dark bathroom, when it had still been slicked down. Yusuf had said that it had been a small container that had tumbled down on Eames' head and fallen open, but they'd had to get as much residue off as they could, as quickly as they could, and that had included getting rid of Eames' shirt and shoes. Arthur supposed he should consider himself lucky that Eames still had on his pants. He hoped that Eames hadn't been too fond of that shirt, or his shoes and socks, because he wasn't going to be getting the soiled items back. Yusuf had already disposed of them, safely he had assured Arthur.

If only he'd been so careful with the compound in the first place.

Now Eames' hair was drying and sticking up in odd places, falling over his forehead, which was furrowed with the effort of keeping his eyes closed. His face had been relaxed, even peaceful, while he'd been in the warehouse bathroom, but the process of getting him to the hotel rattled him, made his features pinch with something that very much resembled pain.

Arthur got him there as quickly as possible, feeling for the man.

It was a little fascinating, seeing Eames ruffled and undone like this. Stripped to his undershirt, his hair a mess, incongruously long lashes resting on his cheeks. Being able to look at Eames without the risk of the man looking back. It was strange, seeing Eames this vulnerable, this dependent on Arthur. Silent and still and intensely focused, even though that focus was all inward.

Arthur kind of thought he liked Eames like this. And that thought made him feel kind of... creepy. Or, worse, invasive. So he did his best to quash this reaction, to make it go away.

He'd gotten the impression that Yusuf and Ariadne had intended him to take Eames back to the man's own hotel room, but Arthur settled Eames in _his_ room instead. He wasn't sure if he wanted to feel as though he was in control, or whether it was because he would have felt it even more of a violation for him to push his way uninvited into Eames' personal space. Or maybe he just didn't want to see the room where Eames was a _man_ , instead of a competent, occasionally irritating co-worker. Didn't want to see crumpled clothing on the floor, smell Eames' sleep-sweat in the sheets, see the damp towels in the bathroom....

And since Eames couldn't open his eyes, he wouldn't be seeing any of the pieces of Arthur scattered around his own room.

The hotel had thick curtains, which had already been closed before they had entered, and Arthur didn't bother with the lights. He was able to get Eames to the bed even before his own eyes adjusted, because he kept his room neat enough that he could be confident they had a clear path to it from the door. The only area of disorder was the bedcovers, because Arthur didn't get maid service in his room -- it wasn't paranoia, it was only prudent -- and he didn't see any point to making the bed in the morning when he was just going to get back in it again that night.

Arthur grabbed a couple of the pillows and set them against the headboard before getting Eames carefully propped back against them.

Then he paused a moment, taking a deep breath, and considering what had brought them to this point.

"I think I'm going to have to find some way to penalize Yusuf for this," he whispered, speaking mostly to himself. But from the way that Eames' lips curled up at the corners, he'd heard Arthur clearly, even though Arthur had taken a couple of steps back from the bed before he had spoken.

God, the man's senses really must be heightened. Arthur made a note to be very careful. He'd already had his cell set to vibrate while he'd been running surveillance. Now he reached over and unplugged the hotel phone from the wall. It was highly unlikely anyone would be calling him through that line instead of his personal number, but he wasn't willing to take the chance.

Especially not seeing the way Eames' whole body jerked in response to the faint click as he pulled the phone cable free of the jack. Even in the shadowy darkness of the room, Arthur could see the gooseflesh rising on Eames' arms and he bit his lower lip. He wanted to ask Eames what he was feeling, how his varied senses were being affected by the compound, but he didn't dare.

Instead, he very carefully seated himself in the chair beside the bed, keeping a close eye on Eames. He looked much the same as he had in the bathroom, his face once more easing into a calm expression, his shoulders becoming less taut, his knees drawn up and his hands resting loose, palm-up, to either side of him. He had allowed his head to fall back slightly against the pillow behind him, his neck a long, smooth line. He was sketched in stark angles of shadows and flesh, and Arthur almost wished that it was so dark in the room that he hadn't been able to see Eames at all.

That was just a strange thought, though, so he set it aside for future examination.

Instead of spending more time thinking, Arthur toed off his shoes and settled back into the chair cushions with a sigh. Yusuf hadn't known how long it would take the compound to wear off, so if he didn't come up with a remedy, they were just going to have to wait it out.

Arthur had a feeling it was going to be a _long_ wait. For both himself and Eames.

+++

Enhanced lucidity, Yusuf had called it. Heightened sensory faculty. Pain in the flipping _arse_ was Eames' personal assessment.

Actually, it wasn't as though it was all bad. It was sort of like being high, whilst being absolutely nothing like it. When he wasn't in motion, when it was dark and quiet and the world around him wasn't screaming in his skull, pounding over the entire surface of his skin, it was almost... pleasurable.

Not to say he was happy it had happened. Not that he wouldn't be glad when it was over with. And Yusuf was going to be getting an earful, once Eames could speak without feeling as though his own voice would scrape the skin right off of his bones.

It hadn't been so terrible, once they had gotten him ensconced in the bathroom, back at the warehouse. After his senses had stopped reeling, stopped interpreting everything around him as an assault. Once he'd had a moment to calm himself, to take stock of things, he had discovered that there were even a few benefits.

Yusuf had been warm and reassuring, staying silent and protective beside him. His hand had hovered at the level of Eames' eyes, not daring to come in contact with his skin, but the heat of his palm almost a physical weight against Eames' lids. With his senses so enhanced Eames could almost have sworn that he _had_ felt the weight, even though he full well knew that Yusuf had been very careful about physically touching him. With good reason.

Still, Yusuf's body heat, the solid reality of his presence, had been a comfort to Eames' spinning mind. He had smelled of cinnamon and Somnacin... which latter odor Eames hadn't realized he'd have been able to recognize until that moment. There had been a lot of other layers to Yusuf's scent; masculine musk, Ivory soap, some fresh sweat which had probably been due to anxiety. But before Eames could even begin to catalog them all, Arthur had arrived and Yusuf had left Eames alone in the bathroom while he went to confess his sins and beg their point man for his aid.

At least, that was what Eames had assumed Yusuf to have done. He considered the fact that Arthur had taken charge of him and had dragged him back to Arthur's own hotel room to be adequate verification of this.

It had seemed a very long time that he had spent in the bathroom alone, waiting, but he figured it hadn't actually been that long objectively. Not only did the compound he'd been dosed with enhance his senses to an extreme extent, but he thought that it also served to expand the passage of time. Or maybe it was just that he was _experiencing_ so much that the minutes only seemed to pass more slowly. Objectively, Eames knew that this bode well for the final version of Yusuf's sedative... but in the meantime he was left to deal with the consequences.

He had sat there, breathing carefully, feeling the press against each rib as his lungs swelled and released. He could smell every cleaning fluid they had used in the bathroom, as well as a touch of mold underneath, despite their best efforts. It had made him feel a little ill, so he'd concentrated instead on remembering the scents that had clung to Yusuf's skin, recalling the clean whiff of lemongrass and feminine perspiration he'd gotten off of Ariadne, and the quick clap of Arthur to his senses that he'd gotten for a brief moment while the man had stood in the open doorway.

And hadn't that been something. Unexpected, because Eames had known Arthur intended to be out all day, running surveillance of some sort. Ariadne must have called him back.

Now he was in the point man's hotel room. He knew that intimately, even though with his eyes closed the set up, the bed, hadn't seemed any different from his own. But with his eyes closed, he was completely focused on his other senses. And this room smelled too strongly of Arthur to be anyone else's.

Eames could concentrate almost entirely on the scent of the point man, learning it more completely than he had been able, that quick moment in the bathroom. He was surrounded in it, and even though he could no longer feel Arthur's body heat -- he could hear Arthur breathing so he knew he was still in the room, but at a distance -- he felt as though he was wrapped in a comforting embrace.

Yusuf had been warmth and tangy spices, his rich scent reminiscent of Kenya. Ariadne had been both strong and girlish at once, perfectly reflecting her personality. In fact, Eames had felt a little odd, getting to know her so intimately just from her scent. He now knew what deodorant she used, as well as being sure she used spearmint toothpaste and some sort of fruity-citrus shampoo. All this he could have learned from a close embrace, of course, but he and little Ariadne simply did not have that sort of relationship.

Arthur was nothing like the other two. His scent was as clean and crisp as Ariadne's at the same time it was as warm and comforting as Yusuf's. That seemed as though it should have been a contradiction, but like so many things about Arthur, Eames found it be curiously fitting.

And now, the scent was even stronger. Stronger than it would have been if it had just been coming from the man in question, which was why Eames was certain he was in Arthur's hotel room.

Eames felt a little invasive, sitting here _smelling_ Arthur.... And yet, what else was there for him to do? He was blind and unable to move. He had no control over his senses. He could feel the weave of the duvet under the backs of his hands, the stretch of his slacks over his knees, and he could swear that his skin registered _every single_ thread. The air was cool and smooth against his face, like a damp towel that never warmed to match his body heat. His wrists and ankles were prickling cold, blood pulsing so near the surface. His back was hot against the pillow, and he could feel each beat of his heart pumping in his chest, sucked in the air like thin stardust with each breath....

God, he would lose himself if he didn't find something to focus on. And since Arthur wasn't talking to him, he was going to have to concentrate on what he _could_ sense. With his eyes closed -- for his own good, really, because everything had a halo, a noisy aura, and some things _vibrated_ in a manner he found incredibly disconcerting each time he tried peeking, even in the dark -- all he really had was his sense of smell.

Eames had always been a physical being, it was true, but he'd never expected to find it taken to this level. He couldn't say he'd do it again, given the option, but... well, he had to do what he could with what he'd been dealt.

Damn Yusuf and his improperly corked compounds, though. And why the _Hell_ had he put it in the tea cupboard anyhow? Fuming over this took Eames' mind off of things for a short time. But only for a short time. Then he was right back where he'd begun, in Arthur's room, on Arthur's sheets, surrounded by the scent of the man.

Arthur, Eames decided, smelled good. Well, that was the most simple way of putting it. Like Arthur himself, the full reality was decidedly more complex than that.

Eames allowed his head to tip back further, feeling the wood of the headboard pressing hard and unforgiving against his scalp, feeling each and every hair that shifted tugging at its own individual follicle. He tried to restrain a shiver, because moving made him feel as though he would melt right out of his skin.

He could smell Arthur's pomade. It was the same brand that he used, which threw him for a moment, gave him a queer feeling in his middle. As with Ariadne, he picked up a veritable medley of grooming products; sharp deodorant, mint mouthwash, fading shampoo and conditioner, and some sort of simple, woodsy cologne that was unfamiliar to him. Underneath all of that, and overriding it at the same time, he could smell _Arthur_. His clean skin, the faint tang of sweat, a heavier musk that bespoke his abject maleness. It was something familiar and yet not. For one thing, Arthur smelled a lot more like sex than Eames would have expected.

Or, well, it was entirely possible that Eames' nose was just being hypersensitive and that he really was a very dirty, filthy-minded wanker.

But then, he tended to be filthy-minded when it came to Arthur, didn't he. He was just fortunate that the man couldn't read his mind, or Eames would have likely found himself castrated by this point. At best.

It wasn't as though Eames could help himself, though. In addition to being deceptively lean at the same time he was incredibly athletic, his musculature exquisitely developed, Arthur was also quite handsome. Especially when his face wasn't crunched up in a worried scowl or fierce expression of concentration. Eames was inordinately pleased each and every time he got a glimpse of Arthur deeply lost in the embrace of Somnacin, hooked up to the PASIV device. Or any time Arthur did research that didn't require him to squint almost as narrowly as Cobb, whenever his face was relaxed and tranquil. This didn't happen often.

It was Eames' fond wish that someday he might see Arthur without the pomade in his hair. Perhaps fresh out of a shower, the dark strands towel-dried and beginning to curl. He suspected that without his hair slicked back Arthur would go from striking and handsome to something more approaching _beautiful_. He also thought that the man would probably look all of seventeen. Maybe nineteen at the most. He wasn't sure whether this made him uncomfortable or even more turned on, but he was leaning toward the latter reaction.

There were so many other aspects to Arthur's totality that Eames was attracted to, as well. His slanted, smoldering brown eyes, the dimples that appeared when he smiled -- Eames kept a tally, and he was sad to say he had only seen Arthur smile, honestly smile, a total of six times in all the years they had known one another -- those amazing cupid bow lips....

And there was more, always there was more, qualities that weren't physical. Arthur's competence and confidence were incredibly sexy. His quick wit and his great store of knowledge were also a draw. Eames thought that conversation with Arthur would never get boring, not even if one were to spend years with him.

Not that... not that Eames had ever considered being in a long term relationship with Arthur. How could he? He and the man could barely stand each other.

Couldn't they?

+++

"Arthur?"

Arthur started up, rising from the chair at the sound of Eames' husky whisper. He padded over to the bed, and Eames turned his face toward him, just the tiniest fraction, his eyes still closed, his mouth tight.

"Yeah?" he breathed, as quietly as he was able.

Eames twitched, and Arthur winced in response, but it had been Eames who had initiated this exchange. And it was Eames who was continuing now.

"Talk to me, please." Arthur didn't think this was the best idea in the world. He could see well enough in the dark to see that Eames' breathing had quickened, could see his fingers curling restlessly with each word he uttered, even though he was speaking so softly Arthur could hardly hear him. "Please. I'm going mad, alone inside my head."

Arthur bit his lower lip, hating that he was hearing this pleading tone in Eames' voice. Hating that Eames was probably right. Weighing the drawbacks against the benefits. "Are you sure...?"

"Just whisper," Eames told him, and turned his head a little bit more. Arthur could nearly see him in three-quarter view now. His sharp nose and finely formed cheekbone. The brushing of stubble along his jaw and over his cheeks, below those cheekbones. Here, in the dark, his eyes closed, his face relaxed, with hair that had been rinsed mostly free of product falling onto his forehead, Eames looked years younger... he looked almost pretty. "Please?"

"I'm going to sit down on the bed now," Arthur warned, whispering as softly as he could manage and still articulate the words properly. "Is that okay?"

Eames only grunted quietly in response, but his nearer hand moved feebly in Arthur's direction, which Arthur took as proffered permission. He sank down onto the mattress with more care than he thought he had ever taken sitting down in his life. And that included the day immediately following the first time he had bottomed, back when he'd still been a teenager.

Okay, so, maybe thinking about gay sex and his participation therewith was a bad idea when he was sitting next to a more than passingly attractive, powerfully muscled, irreverent Englishman wearing a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of slacks, speaking to him in a husky rasp that sounded more than a little fucked out at the best of times.

Eames always looked good, always sounded like foreplay. But right now, in a state of partial undress, the sculpted bulk of his shoulders and biceps exposed, his hair mussed and flyaway, his eyes stubbornly closed... and had his lashes always been that long? Well, now he was even more tempting. And with that piercing gaze shuttered behind his thin eyelids, Arthur was free to look, to see, to appreciate.

Arthur felt a bit like a pervert, especially since Eames was so completely vulnerable right now, but he couldn't help the slow smolder of sexual fission he was suddenly experiencing.

"What should I talk about?" he whispered, settling his own hand on the mattress a good couple of inches from Eames' hand. Close enough that the man could probably feel his body heat, what with his artificially enhanced senses, but not so near that he could cause Eames discomfort. Or, at least, so he fervently hoped.

Eames was silent for a moment, his face pinching. Arthur told himself it was in thought, not in pain or discomfort because Arthur had jostled him or gotten too close. And he was actually fairly confident that this was the case, which was good for his peace of mind.

"Anything," Eames eventually rasped.

Arthur scowled. "That's really infuriatingly vague," he whispered, speaking the words not because he was actually upset with Eames for this fact, but because Eames had asked him to talk, and that was something for him to say.

"Sorry," Eames breathed. Then one corner of his mouth turned up very, very slightly. "You're frowning right now, aren't you."

+++

"Possibly," Arthur admitted, and Eames felt the shifting of the air as his hand moved closer to Eames', could feel the body heat rolling off of Arthur's skin onto his own. It raised gooseflesh on his arms, he could feel each hair standing to attention, but his body was rather more inclined to interpret it as a pleasurable sensation than an uncomfortable one.

There was a certain softness to the word, even though it was spoken in a sibilant hiss, and Eames frowned himself, even though it felt as though the wrinkles this creased in his face went all the way down to the center of his dark little world. "Are you smiling now?" he needed to know.

There was a long pause, during which his mind worked rapidly, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing, if he'd pissed Arthur off, if the man would leave him alone now... even though it was actually Arthur's room, now that he thought about it.

"Maybe," Arthur finally admitted, and he didn't _sound_ angry, as near as Eames could tell from a whisper.

"Wish I could see," Eames breathed before he could think not to. He would have taken the chance, cracking his eyes open despite everything, but he was fairly certain that Arthur had stopped smiling the moment Eames had mentioned it.

"What?"

"That would be smile number seven, but I've missed it." Evidently a side effect of the compound was the inability to censor himself. He'd have to tell Yusuf... right after he throttled the chemist for getting him into this mess in the first place.

Well, if Arthur didn't throttle Eames first.

"You keep track of how often I smile at you?" Arthur somehow managed to convey an impressive amount of incredulity despite the fact that he maintained control and continued to whisper the words.

Eames would have winced, if doing so wouldn't have sent splinters of movement and sensation all over the entirety of his body. His mouth still seemed to be out of his control, though, when he answered.

"I wish. Those are only the times I've _seen_ you smile, darling. You've smiled _at me_ exactly once; when we first met."

"And then I got to know you," Arthur replied, sounding distracted, for some reason.

This time Eames _did_ flinch, both mentally and physically. He'd thought the same thing many times, privately, to himself, but to hear Arthur _say_ it like that.... Well, it might just be his hypersensitive state, but Eames almost felt as though hearing the words had physically hurt him.

"Eames, no. I'm not serious," Arthur murmured, and he sounded a little bit urgent, a little more contrite, as he leaned forward in a rush of complex scents and engulfing body heat. Eames wondered what his face had betrayed, hated this enforced blindness, hated even more the weakness he was experiencing. Wished he could turn his head the opposite direction without feeling as though it was going to twist away from his neck. "You know I didn't mean that," Arthur pursued.

"Don't need you to humor me," Eames got out through lips that were beginning to tingle with each word he exhaled. "We both know it's the truth."

"But it's not," Arthur argued. Eames put it down to unexpected kindness and rampant sympathy, and he supposed he should be glad that Arthur thought enough of him to try to ease his feelings. "Eames, are you listening to me?"

"Rather wish you weren't listening to _me_ ," Eames mumbled, and the more he talked the easier it got, even though he could feel every word that he spoke as though it were stumbling clumsily across his tongue, then tripping over his teeth and lips on the way out. "Can we blame this on the drugs?" he asked miserably.

Arthur was silent, and Eames felt his stomach twist with nerves. That, at least, felt no more intense than normal. Perhaps because his innards were buried so deeply inside of him that the drug hadn't affected them.

"Is the compound making you more prone to speaking your mind?" Arthur finally asked, and he sounded honestly curious, for what Eames could tell without opening his eyes. He didn't sound as though he was frowning, Eames thought. He hoped.

"Must be."

"You know that I don't smile much, just in general."

Eames winced again, despite the way it made his skin tighten all over. He ran his tongue over the jagged line of his bottom teeth in order to center himself, to give himself a moment to think. He wanted to tell Arthur that he _should_ smile more, in general. He wanted to offer to do whatever it took to bring a smile to the man's face. He wanted to tell Arthur how beautiful Eames thought he looked when he let himself smile. And that... that confession would have just been disastrous.

"Can we change the subject?" he requested, knowing damned well that he sounded particularly pathetic.

He just couldn't help it, though.

+++

"All right," Arthur acquiesced easily enough. This wasn't exactly a comfortable subject for him, either. Although he did feel as though he was getting some new insights into Eames' character. And now that he knew he could get Eames to answer more honestly than he normally might....

Well, that was something to think about. At least until the effects of the compound wore off.

On the one hand, asking Eames a personal question now, deliberately taking advantage of his inadvertent dosage, would be a rather contemptible thing to do. But on the other hand... well, when was Arthur going to get another opportunity like this again?

Eames was silent, and Arthur knew that it was up to him to introduce a new topic of conversation, but nothing sprang to mind.

He watched, mesmerized, as Eames' tongue slid out, traveling over his lower lip, with agonizing slowness. But then, it probably would have been agonizing for _Eames_ if he'd done it more quickly.

Arthur caught his breath, suddenly realizing that not only had he been staring, but he was also feeling a rising heat, flaring through his torso but centered in his groin. But even worse was the realization that with his enhanced senses, it was a virtual certainty that Eames was going to be able to _smell_ Arthur's growing arousal.

 _Oh, shit!_ was the thought foremost in his mind, and he spoke quickly, remembering to keep his voice down even though he was desperate, both to distract Eames and to try and quell his own treacherous libido.

"Can you tell me what it feels like?"

Eames' brow wrinkled in a frown, and then his pink, pointed tongue was tracing his plump upper lip in turn. Arthur had never seen anyone with a mouth like Eames before. Not in reality, not in movies, and not in porn. How was he supposed to keep a clean mind like this?

He averted his eyes, his gaze moving downward... and that wasn't much better. Arthur's eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the hotel room, and there was enough light seeping in around the edges of the curtains that he could see fairly clearly.

Eames' neck was arched, where he rested his head back against the pillow, his face turned toward Arthur. A smooth pillar of tempting flesh ending where his sharp collarbones arched, meeting in a tempting dip. The undershirt he was wearing was worn and looked soft, clinging to the perfectly sculpted muscles of his chest and belly. And Arthur didn't know why a thief and gambler who did most of his work in the dreamshare should be _that_ fit, that powerfully built, but he could definitely appreciate the view.

God dammit.

Well, to be fair, Arthur worked to keep himself in optimal health, and there was no reason Eames shouldn't do the same. Just because they did the majority of their work inside the dreams of others, that didn't mean that their crimes didn't occasionally have real world repercussions. And as Cobb had proved in Mombasa, being able to outrun hired goons with firearms was just as important as being able to find and open a mark's safe to get at their secrets.

"It feels...." Eames shifted against the mattress, just the tiniest bit, then let out a low noise that wasn't quite a whimper. "It's everything. I feel... everything.... I can't.... Sorry, Arthur, I can't put it into words."

"That's all right," Arthur replied quickly, soothingly. And seeing Eames struggle like that really should have quashed his libido, but it really hadn't. Which made him hate himself just a little bit, even though he was usually pretty comfortable with himself, inside his head and out. He wanted to take Eames' hand in his own, offer him some tangible support and comfort, but he didn't dare to. "Besides, you asked _me_ to talk to _you_. Not to prompt you to talk to _me_. I was just... well, curious."

Eames smiled slightly again, close-mouthed, and his lips were fat enough that stretching them this way didn't thin them... at all. Arthur was fairly certain he'd never felt the desire to press his own mouth against Eames' before, but here it was. Powerful and undeniable.

"You don't have to, you know," Eames said, and his voice was a little bit louder. Arthur hoped that this meant the compound was wearing off, as Yusuf had promised, faster than Arthur would have expected. Glancing down, he noted that their fingers were brushing, ever so slightly, where his hand rested palm-down on the mattress and Eames' lay palm-up. "Talk to me, that is. Although, I do appreciate it. More than you can know."

"Well," Arthur mused, concentrating on the slightest of pressure against his knuckles, thinking how it might feel for Eames, pondering the fact that the man _couldn't_ be unaware of this touch, "I can imagine. Contrary to a nasty rumor _someone_ seems to be spreading, I do have some imagination."

Eames actually chuckled at this, even though it was only a small puff of sound, and his eyes slitted open. Arthur could see the black gleam of dilated pupils between sandy lashes, but Eames didn't immediately slam his lids shut, so he must be all right....

"I think the drug is wearing off," Arthur said, daring to speak a little more loudly, carefully modulating his volume to match Eames' last verbalization exactly.

"Yeah. Don't feel quite so much that my skin is going to come loose every time someone speaks, that my muscles will splinter every time I move, that my lungs are full of stardust."

Arthur's brows rose, and he found that he was smiling again. "And you said you couldn't describe what it felt like," he said, mock-accusingly. "You managed fairly well just now."

"Smile number seven," Eames said in a wondering tone of voice, and his hand moved spastically, flopping atop Arthur's almost as though it had been an accident.

Arthur stopped smiling at the reminder, but he attempted to mold his features into a pleasant expression because he wasn't a complete asshole. "There. You see? You didn't miss seeing it after all."

"Fair trade," Eames breathed, confusing Arthur for a moment, until he continued. "Last chance to ask me something embarrassing while I'm still under the influence." He sounded tolerant, amused, accepting of the idea.

Arthur nearly smiled again. He didn't quite, but he could feel his eyes crinkle at the corners as though he had.

"Maybe I'd rather just use my imagination," he murmured, turning his hand beneath Eames' so that he could clasp the other man's fingers.

Eames' flesh was burning against his, so even though they were both speaking optimistically, even though the drug _was_ releasing its hold on Eames, he clearly had a long way to go before he was fully recovered. His condition may not be completely debilitating any longer, but he wasn't going to be getting off of Arthur's bed any time soon.

"You won't go anywhere, will you?" Eames asked, trying and failing to keep his tone light. The pads of his fingers were callused and yet smooth, not rough. His face was still turned toward Arthur, though his eyes were closed once again.

"Where would I go?" Arthur responded to the need he sensed in Eames, rather than the tone the man had tried to adopt. "This is my hotel room."

"Just... don't.... Not, not back... to the... chair?" Eames managed to get out. He had seemed to be doing better, but now he as fading fast. Arthur scowled, wondering whether this was another effect of the compound.

"I'm not moving," he informed Eames crisply, but not unkindly. "It'll be all right. Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

He'd half expected a snappy response, but Eames just let out a soft sigh and seemed to sink into himself, slumping back against the pillow behind him. He fell asleep so quickly that Arthur was almost tempted to say that he had become unconscious... but he preferred to think of it as simply sleep, even if it was drug-induced and not natural.

Shifting slightly on the mattress, but not letting go his hold on Eames' hand, Arthur managed to tug his cell phone out of his pocket. He could text one-handed, and he needed to let Yusuf know about this development, find out whether or not it was something to be expected, whether Eames was going to be okay.

He wasn't _worried_ , really. Just... mildly _concerned_.

Yusuf's replying text was reassuring -- he was actually on his way to the hotel with an antidote of sorts -- and after Arthur had texted him again to let him know he had Eames in his own room, sending the number, he settled in to wait until he heard Yusuf's step in the hall outside his door.

He remained where he was, however, holding Eames' hand and watching him sleep. He told himself it was because Eames had requested it... but honesty compelled that he admit to himself that he probably would have done it anyway.

+++

Yusuf's remedy wasn't as effective as Eames would have liked, but anything was better than what he had gone through directly after the original compound had fallen on his head.

He was able to open his eyes, to move freely, people could speak in normal tones around him. Which was just as well, because Yusuf had quizzed him mercilessly on his experiences with the compound, and since this was actually related to their job, even if it had happened by accident, Eames couldn't exactly tell him to piss off. Even though he was exhausted after having dealt with the effects of the drug, even though it was Yusuf's fault, and even though he dearly _wanted_ to.

It was after sunset by the time Yusuf had gotten everything he wanted and headed back to the warehouse; doubtless to stay up far too late working.

It was then, very belatedly, that Eames remembered that he was still in Arthur's hotel room.

"Uh, sorry," he said, casting a sheepish glance at their point man. Arthur was standing beside the window, looking at Eames with an unreadable expression on his face.

He was also still haloed in a close aura of warm light. As Yusuf had been. As Eames' hands were, when he cast his gaze down and wiggled his fingers. Yusuf had assured him that the last of the drug's effected would wear off naturally, and he ought to be perfectly fine in time for the Fischer job. In the meantime it was going to be annoying but not longer unbearable.

For some reason, the glow seemed to suit Arthur, Eames thought. Arthur's sleek black hair virtually glistened in the light of the lamp that they had lighted after Yusuf had dosed Eames with the antidote, and once they'd been certain that it was working. It reminded Eames that his own hair was a right mess, after they'd had to prop him up against the warehouse sink and rinse the compound off of his head. Which had felt to his enhanced senses as though he had been forced underneath Niagara Falls, and wasn't that an experience that made him shudder to recall.

"I'll leave now, if you like," he offered lamely, when Arthur didn't say anything. He was already sliding toward the edge of the bed, even though he wasn't sure his knees would hold him. His room was just down one floor, though. If he propped himself up against the walls all along the way, he should be able to get there.

Arthur was shaking his head, though. "I've already ordered enough room service for two," he said, taking a couple of steps to where Eames was wobbling on the edge of the bed -- Arthur's bed. "You can at least stay long enough to help me eat it."

Eames stared at Arthur blankly. Even though he could see the point man perfectly fine now, for some reason he felt he could read him less clearly than he had been able to when they had been sitting alone together in the dark, Eames eyes closed, his senses clouding and confusing his mind.

"I...." He licked his lips nervously and probably just imagined that Arthur's gaze sharpened and tracked the movement. "Far be it from me to sound ungrateful after all you've done for me today, but I'm afraid that I feel as though I wore my welcome out hours ago."

Arthur arched those delightful dark brows that Eames found could be so expressive, and yet his emotions were still a mystery to Eames. "Why don't you let me be the judge of when your welcome has been worn away," he directed firmly.

Eames blinked rapidly, even though the hummingbird flicker of his own lashes was almost enough to make his eyes water. He was doing better, but was still far from recovered.

"Thank you," he said simply, because it would have been beyond rude to reject Arthur's generosity twice. And his Mum hadn't raised him to be impolite; at least not when it didn't suit him. He didn't have a clue as to why Arthur was being so nice, but the point man seemed to honestly mean it, and since Eames was already deeply in his debt, he could hardly justify rejecting it out of hand, simply because he was fearful of dealing with something he didn't fully understand.

Then there came a knock at the door. While Arthur retrieved their meal, Eames made the short trip to the room's small table, discovering that this was quite an ordeal. Perhaps he wasn't ready to try to make it to his own room yet after all. He was beginning to suspect he was going to need Arthur's help doing that as well. Later. After they had eaten.

Arthur, always thoughtful and anticipatory, had not gotten Eames anything too spicy. Normally it wouldn't have been an issue, but right now Eames' taste buds were as over sensitized as the rest of him, and he was growing increasingly grateful to Arthur for taking such good care of him. Even if it was more than a bit disconcerting, and even though Eames hated that he needed such care.

Once they were seated and had their plates before them, he smiled across the table at Arthur, more a baring of his teeth than a pleasant expression. "And now that we're sharing bread, so to speak, perhaps I can suggest a topic for discussion." When Arthur raised his brows again, Eames clarified. "Namely, how exactly we should extract our pound of flesh from dear Yusuf."

And there was smile number eight. Though, from the quirk of the expression, it was more like a smirk than an actual smile.

+++

Arthur _almost_ smiled at Eames in the dreamshare, when he instructed him once again to, "go to sleep, Mr. Eames," but he didn't. And so smiles number nine and ten went to Cobb.

Eames tried not to let that bother him too much. But it did. It really did.

He should have felt happy for the man. Cobb was finally home, safe from being snapped up by the American authorities, no longer considered to be to blame for Mal's death, about to be reunited with his children....

And yet Eames had a hard time letting it go, the fact that Cobb had very nearly gotten them _all_ consigned to the depths of limbo, in selfish pursuit of his own desires. In the excitement of the dreaming, Eames had been able to set his anger aside in favor of pursuing their ultimate goal, since that had been their only hope of making it out alive -- or at least with their minds intact. But now that they were all safely awake and sane -- even Saito, who'd been lost in limbo for what had seemed to the man to be a lifetime -- Eames was free to take a deep breath and to allow himself feel a little bit bitter.

Or maybe it was the fact that Arthur had smiled at Cobb. Twice. First in the plane, and then again at the luggage carousal in LAX.

Perhaps it was also the fact that they were going to go their separate ways, each with a pocket full of Saito's cash and a mind full of memories. Eames would have felt bad for Saito, and he did, a little, but the inception idea had been Saito's in the first place, and he had been an uninvited participant in the whole thing. Not that he hadn't held his own, even after being shot. Eames had to admit to a large amount of respect for the man, as well as a fair helping of the same attraction he felt toward anyone that confident, powerful, and attractive. That last was really just a passing thought at best, of course. Saito had a wife, a mistress, and a business empire that meant more to him than both these women. And Eames would never be _seriously_ interested in the man.

Eames tended to focus on the people that he worked with, colleagues, clients, and marks, both their good traits and their bad. He studied people as a matter of course, watched them closely out of deeply ingrained habit, always aware that he could use them or elements of their personalities at some future point. Always practicing his trade as a forger. He formed friendships quickly, easily, but never seriously. It was too dangerous to get attached.

Some people, though, were more worthy of affection than others. Like little Ariadne, for example.

She was going to be heading right to the Gate that would take her back to Paris. Eames didn't envy her this second flight, even though it also was First Class, courtesy of Saito. He'd wanted to give her a little hug good-bye, maybe a quick kiss, but they all had to pretend that they did not know each other; at least until they were sure they were in the clear and that Robert Fischer didn't suspect anything.

Maybe he would visit France again soon, Eames thought as he watched her trim figure stride quickly away, processing the slightly masculine cant to her hips as she took steps too long for such little legs, learned the bounce of her hair around her shoulders. He would look her up and have a cup of coffee, reminisce... find out exactly what had happened down in limbo, with her, Cobb, and Fischer. Because _something_ had happened. And Eames knew when to leave things alone, but he also knew when and how to satisfy his innate curiosity.

That was a distinction that Ariadne had yet to learn the finer intricacies of, but she would. Eventually. Eames just hoped she wouldn't have to learn it the hard way. He did try not to form attachments to people he worked with, but Ariadne was a bit like the little sister he'd never had, and he had to admit that he had grown more than passingly fond of her.

Yusuf gave him a cheeky wave before haring off to catch his own flight home. Eames had a sneaking suspicion that the chemist would probably never agree to work with any of them again, but he also thought that it was likely that if he stopped by next time he was in Kenya, Yusuf would be pleased to see him. Or at least not toss him out on his ear.

He'd _best_ not. He still owed Eames for that whole debacle with the experimental compound that had upended itself on Eames' head.

And that brought him right back to the whole cause for his somber mood. As well as his biggest break with his self imposed, professionally maintained distance.

Eames was as glad as any of them that they'd carried off the inception job -- well, in fairness, no one was probably more happy over that than Cobb, not even Saito -- but he'd come out of the whole venture with far more baggage than he had carried into it. And that might be partially Yusuf's fault, but it was mostly the fault of Eames' own traitorous emotions.

Well, that and also the fault of a fascinating, handsome, incredibly competent point man who had somehow managed to catch and hold Eames' attention far past the level that anyone he had ever worked with before had been able. Who he was still thinking about even as their erstwhile team rapidly disbanded.

Arthur had somehow gotten under his skin, and this was in direct opposition to everything Eames tried to hold to when he was working. Never get involved with a co-worker. Never become emotionally attached. Never fall in love....

And there it was, wasn't it. Because he admired Saito, he was friends with Yusuf, he was attracted to Ariadne... but they were walking away and he was fine with that. Perhaps they would meet again, perhaps not -- it was especially unlikely in Saito's case -- but it wasn't a wrench.

Seeing Arthur give Cobb an open, happy, _real_ smile, when he hadn't so much as glanced at Eames once since they had awakened... wondering whether they would ever work again... knowing that even if they did, there was nothing between them other than a professional relationship.... _That_ was the wrench.

God, he was a pathetic mess. And yet, somehow, he had come to hold Arthur in greater regard than he had anyone else in a long, long time. He couldn't help but think that it had all started that day he had been dosed with Yusuf's compound. When he had been forced to concentrate on Arthur to the exclusion of everything else. The day that Arthur had actually _been nice to him_. Had taken Eames in hand, quite literally toward the end, and taken care of him.

Eames realized with a start, as someone came to stand beside him, that he'd been lost in thought in the baggage carousal of LAX, focused inward while everyone else had vanished before him.

Everyone but Arthur, he thought, staring blankly at the man in question.

Arthur had been foremost in his thoughts, so it was almost surreal to blink back to an outward focus and find himself facing the object of his introspection. Especially since he'd have thought the point man long gone. Cut free from Cobb now, to be true, but with absolutely no ties to Eames. As it should be.

"Did you have any plans?" Arthur asked, proving that he wasn't an illusion, since he was speaking, or a hallucination, since Eames would never have imagined him speaking this sentence.

Eames stared at Arthur, feeling like a dunce, until he managed to collect himself. Realizing that he really ought to answer the question, he shook his head. "I.... No." Because he hadn't. He wasn't like Arthur, didn't need to always know exactly what he was doing.

Although, in this case, a little guidance wouldn't have been amiss.

"Do you want to get a drink?"

He was still staring, but, honestly, was he supposed to believe that this was really happening? Was he meant to take this at face value?

"With you?" he sought clarification, raising his brows.

Arthur gave him the same almost-smile he'd worn in the dreamshare, while hooking Eames up to go down to the third level, and his eyes were warm even though his expression remained, to Eames, completely unreadable.

"Well, that was the idea." His tone was dry, but he didn't really sound put out.

Eames frowned, then he realized. "Debriefing." He nodded.

After all, with Cobb heading off to his kids, Yusuf a chemist who had only come along with them after being promised a large payout, Ariadne still a novice, and Saito nothing but a tourist no matter how well he had handled himself, that left only Eames and Arthur to be professionals. To get together and talk through what might well be one of the biggest jobs ever pulled off in the dreamshare. Well, _if_ it ended up coming off properly, that was.

Eames was fairly confident that it had worked, _would_ work. He had been there by Fischer's side through nearly the whole thing. He'd forged the man's godfather in order to plant the idea. He'd dreamed up the hospital in the third level and watched as Robert had opened the vault and then the safe inside, watched the man weep as he made peace with the ghost of his father inside his dream, and, presumably, embraced the idea that they had attempted to implant.

Eames wished Robert Fischer well. He had done it for the money, of course -- and also to prove to Arthur that it could _be_ done, after Cobb had told him of the point man's doubts -- but if something good came of the whole venture, Eames would be pleased. After all, if Robert Fischer didn't take their direction, divide the company and learn to be his own man, learn to be far more wary, Peter Browning was going to eat him alive. Snap up the Fischer Morrow conglomerate before Robert knew what had happened. And Eames liked Browning a lot less than he liked Fischer. In addition to getting him to split up his father's company, Eames hoped they had also manage to communicate to Robert that he was going to have to keep an eye on his father's former right hand man, there in the first and second level of the dreamshare.

"If you like," Arthur replied, and there was a tightness around his eyes that Eames couldn't translate, even though his expression remained largely pleasant.

Eames drew in a deep breath. He might be a besotted fool, but here he was, being asked out by the man he had just been bemoaning losing -- even though Arthur had never been his to lose -- and he'd be a utter fool if he turned this unexpected invitation down. Even if it _was_ only business related.

"All right." He rubbed at his nose and upper lip, a tell he had never been able to train himself out of, and gave a tight little nod. Beyond any expectations, he was going to get to spend more time with Arthur; that was a good thing. "Let's go, then."

+++

It took them half an hour in a cab to reach the tavern that Arthur had in mind. The fact that it was about ten minutes away from Arthur's L.A. apartment on foot... well, that he had done very deliberately.

After all, they'd been active in the dreamshare -- very active, with car chases, fist fights, gun battles, gravity defying, and more impossible mayhem -- but in truth, in _reality_ , with the flight from Paris to Sydney, then the crucial uninterrupted flight from Sydney to Los Angeles, they'd been sitting for very close to twenty-four hours, if not longer. Arthur intended to have a few drinks, get something to eat, and he was hoping to talk Eames into coming home with him, but after that, and whether Eames ended up being on the same page he was on or not, Arthur fully intended on walking home.

They'd both packed lightly. Arthur only had two bags because he was headed home and hadn't had that much he had needed to take with him. He'd left stuff in Paris, but it was safely locked in the warehouse, which he had for the rest of the month. He was thinking of going back for it, and -- more importantly -- to see if Ariadne was doing all right after what she had gone through in the dreamshare. But if he didn't end up getting there before the lease ran out, Ariadne had a key and he could ask her to grab his things. Eames only had _one_ bag because... well, Arthur hadn't worked with the man often enough to confidently make the assessment, but he thought it likely that Eames always travelled light. In both their cases, it made it easier to run, when there was less to carry, less that could give a man away if it was left behind.

The three bags sat under the table, at their feet. Forgotten for the moment as they ordered drinks and perused the menu. Eames seemed a little surprised that Arthur was willing to eat somewhere that the bill of fare was printed on one sheet of colored paper, where the beer was domestic, and the main ingredient of everything was grease. But Arthur liked confounding Eames' expectations, and this was one of his favor spots to eat, along with the kaiten-zushi restaurant a couple of blocks down and the local pizza place that delivered no matter the hour.

Eames kept shooting him strange looks every time he thought Arthur wasn't paying attention. Not that he blamed the man. Arthur had already worked all this out, come to a decision in his own mind, but he supposed that to Eames this might have seemed a little as though it was coming out of nowhere.

Paris seemed worlds away, after everything they had experienced in the dreamshare during the flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. And yet that was where it had started.

It was different than inception. Arthur knew that the thoughts, the emotions were his own. And yet he _could_ trace the genesis of the idea. Maybe it had started before then, but when it had come to his notice, punched itself into the forefront of his mind, had been that one quiet afternoon and evening in his darkened hotel room. When he had seen Eames undone and vulnerable. Without his sardonic mask.

Arthur was fairly certain that he still didn't know the real Eames... but he'd gotten a little bit closer that day. And he'd learned enough to know that he wanted to find out more. For the first time he had found Eames to be intriguing rather than annoying. Had seen him as a man rather than a forger.

There was more to it than that, of course. It wasn't merely a psychological, a cerebral response. There was a physical side to it as well.

Arthur was a proud man, and so he was never going to tell Eames that after he had seen him safely to his hotel room, that day he had accidentally gotten dosed by one of Yusuf's compounds, Arthur had returned to his own room, his own bed, sinking into sheets that smelled of Eames, that smelled of both of them. He had closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Eames had felt when he had been sitting there, and then he had buried his face in the pillow, wrapped his hand around his dick, and he had gotten himself off to the musky smell of Eames that clung to the linens. Jerked off slow and steady to the thought of Eames blind and helpless in his bed, shuddered to the memory of those long lashes resting on the man's flushed cheeks, shot off while visualizing those fat lips wrapped around his dick.

It had not been one of his finer moments, Arthur had to admit. The fact that he was pretty sure Eames would probably not be offended but might instead find it remarkably hot did not render him any more inclined to share.

Then again, they were hardly of a level for this sort of confession. Arthur hesitated to label the looks Eames kept giving him as suspicious, but there did seem to be a distinct lack of trust. Well, not that Arthur had really done anything to _earn_ Eames' trust. Outside the dreamshare, that was.

It was time to rectify that. At least, Arthur hoped that there was still time.

He might have earned a little trust that afternoon and evening in his hotel room, Arthur thought optimistically. At least, that was how it had seemed to him. He wasn't sure how Eames had come to think of their interactions that day. They had returned to a fully professional manner of interacting with one another as soon as Eames was completely recovered.... And yet Arthur had found himself thinking of those intense few hours often.

It had felt _good_ , taking care of Eames, looking out for him. Somehow it had been even better knowing that most of the time Eames didn't need such care, didn't need anything from Arthur, could take care of himself. There was a delicate balance there, that Arthur was looking forward to learning the intricacies of.

If Eames was amenable, that was.

Now that the stress and bustle of the Fischer job was over with, it was time to find out whether or not Eames _was_ amenable. Arthur wasn't the sort to put things off, and the fact that Eames had lingered at the airport after everyone else had departed... well, that had left Arthur with the perfect opportunity. He'd have been an idiot not to take advantage.

Arthur was not an idiot.

"To powerful business men with delusions of godhead and more money than is good for them," Eames spoke up in that throaty rasp that Arthur had grown so familiar with during this job, raising his first glass of the evening.

Arthur lifted his brows, but he also lifted his drink, touching his glass to Eames' lightly. "Are you referring to Saito or to Fischer?" he asked after taking a sip.

Eames shrugged easily, the shoulders of his black jacket more well fitted than some of his more offensive articles of clothing. Arthur wondered absently whether Eames missed his mustard pattern shirt, the one he'd been wearing when Yusuf's compound had dosed him. "Either one, really," Eames replied, taking a meditative drink. "One of them put money in our pockets directly, the other indirectly."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully, taking another drink, but his attention was mainly focused on Eames, where the man sat across from him in a small booth. Arthur had insisted they sit here instead of the bar, then made sure that both of them ordered food. Whatever happened tonight -- and it might be absolutely nothing at all -- it wasn't going to happen because of too much alcohol and not enough to eat in the past ten hours.

Arthur was confident that _something_ was going to happen, even if he wasn't quite sure yet what that might be. He wasn't going to let this opportunity pass him by. He had _made_ this opportunity, and now that he had it he was going to make the most of it.

"I hope Fischer does well for himself," Eames said thoughtfully, clasping his hands before his on the tabletop, his eyes scanning the room, averted from Arthur. Arthur didn't mind this fact; it was what Eames did. When they were in private Eames would focus on each and every individual he spoke to with almost obsessive intensity, but while out in public, anywhere there were people, unknown elements, potential danger, he kept a weather eye out. Arthur could appreciate this. In fact, he tended to make use of it, letting himself relax a little when he was out with Eames, safe in the knowledge that Eames remained watchful. Not that Arthur would ever completely let down his own guard, of course. Not that he _could_.

"I think he will," Arthur replied equably. He smiled into his drink, just for a moment, and knew that Eames had missed it, his gaze turned outward, regretted a little that the man wouldn't be able to add it to his count. "You grew a bit attached to him, I take it."

Eames glanced at him in surprise, his brows rising. "Not really." Eames scowled, and Arthur felt the desire to wipe those lines away from his forehead, erase the darkness from his gaze. "I don't form attachments during a job, Arthur. Everyone knows that."

Arthur hummed as he set his glass down carefully on a coaster. "If you say so," he replied noncommittally. Whether Eames thought he was fooling Arthur, or whether he actually believe that himself, that was beside the point. Arthur gave Eames an arch look. "What about after a job?"

+++

Eames was fairly certain he had heard wrong. Surely he had imagined Arthur speaking those words, much less the light, friendly, possibly flirtatious tone in which they had been uttered.

Fortunately, he was saved from having to come up with a reasonable reply to an unreasonable question by the arrival of their order. It was greasy, salty tavern food, but it was his first meal after successfully performing inception, and he was sitting across from the one man who interested him beyond all others, so he hardly felt he was in a position to complain.

That. of course, didn't stop him from _doing_ so, once he got a good look at his meal.

"This is _not_ fish and chips," he proclaimed, once their server was safely out of earshot, lifting a soggy piece of potato that he thought the Americans called a steak fry. He shook his head and sighed heavily. "You can't get proper fish and chips in the States."

Arthur snorted, peeling back the top bun of his sandwich -- a french dip, Eames noted with amusement -- and salting processed beef that surely had to already be distressingly salty. "Why order fish and chips in the States then?" he asked, perfectly reasonably.

Eames shrugged and stole one of Arthur's fries, which were slimmer and looked far more appetizing than his own. "I figure if I'm going to get something dreadful, I might as well _know_ that it's going to be dreadful before it gets to my table."

Arthur shook his head, generously peppering his fries. Eames was still going to steal some more of them, provided Arthur didn't chop his hand off. "There's plenty on the menu that was good, Eames. You could have just asked me."

Eames blinked. "You've been here before?"

Arthur glanced up at him through dark lashes. "I come here regularly," he informed Eames, and he was frowning but he didn't sound too put out. Maybe a little disappointed, as though Eames should have already known that. Or at least not been so surprised by the fact.

Eames looked around the place with new eyes, taking in the warm decor and the friendly servers, the smiling bartender, and he tried to imagine Arthur coming here regularly. It was... difficult to envision. But not impossible.

It became even more easy when he turned back to look at Arthur. To really _look_ at him. Arthur had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He still looked neat and professional, but he also looked significantly more relaxed.

Life without Cobb already seemed to suit him. Or maybe Eames was reading too much into it; maybe this was what Arthur always looked like on his time off. He was certainly ready to see if he could find out.

Eames watched, more than mildly fascinated, as Arthur dunked his sandwich then raised it to his mouth, taking a large bite. There was salt on his elegant fingers, grease on his pink lips, and au jus dripping down to curl wet and brown around the pale flesh of his bare wrists.

Eames felt as though he had never seen Arthur before. He had certainly never seen him like this.

"Hello," he said, thrusting his hand across the table at Arthur. "I'm Eames. Formerly an international thief, now a man of leisure; at least until I get bored. What's your name?"

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, and Eames wouldn't have blamed him if he'd decided Eames was off his nut. But then Arthur set down his sandwich, carefully wiped his fingers on his napkin, and, just as Eames' hand was starting to waver, as he began to consider taking it back, he reached and clasped Eames' fingers in his own, his grip strong and warm.

"Pleased to meet you," he said smoothly. "My name is Arthur. I make things happen."

And then he smiled, open and honest, and Eames spontaneously decided to start his count all over again.

"One."

Arthur's smile melted into a wider grin and he shook his head, but the smile stayed on his mouth and his eyes warmed indulgently. "Eat your fish and chips, Mr. Eames," he directed, picking up his sandwich. "Then I'll take you home and show you my art collection."

And even though the cooling fish and chips were still dreadful, Eames did as he'd been instructed. Although he did end up filching a good half of Arthur's fries.

+++

Arthur took Eames to his home, they dropped their bags in the entryway, and then Arthur dragged Eames directly to the bedroom.

Patience was overrated and Arthur was used to getting his way. Besides, as he had said to Eames, he made things happen. Even more so when he had made up his mind as to what it was he wanted.

"I thought I was here to see your art collection," Eames protested, though he was smiling as he said it, his dark gaze fixed on Arthur with a hunger that was impossible to misread.

"That was a pretense," Arthur replied, reaching forward and unbuttoning Eames' black shirt. "Surely as an international thief you're familiar with such forms of subterfuge."

Eames tsk-ed, his plush lips pursing, and quickly unbuttoned his cuffs before Arthur pushed the shirt off his shoulders and stripped it off of him entirely. "I feel I've been shamefully misled," he purred, and Arthur had thought the man's voice sounded like sin before; he'd been wrong. _Now_ Eames sounded like pure, unadulterated sex, his husky tones practically caressing each word that he spoke.

"How so?" Arthur asked, quirking a brow. He took a moment to admire Eames; to appreciate the fact that the man was standing in his bedroom, clad in an undershirt and a pair of dark slacks, his arms and chest as powerfully muscled as Arthur remembered. "Take this off," he instructed, plucking at the collar of the undershirt.

Eames immediately gripped the hem, turning it inside-out as he stripped it away. Arthur disapproved of the sloppiness but he was gratified by the eagerness. He was even more gratified by the way this impulsive method of disrobing had mussed Eames' hair.

"You feel misled?" he prompted, as he unbuckled Eames' belt, all quick, sure fingers, no hesitation. He knew what he wanted, and by this point he felt he could be completely certain that Eames wanted it too.

"Perhaps I misspoke," Eames said breathlessly, staring at him with wide eyes as he undid the man's fly. "I believe the word I wanted was aroused."

"Oh. Well then." Arthur smirked, sliding his hands boldly beneath the waistband of the slacks, feeling Eames' hipbones hard beneath his exploring fingertips, through the silk material of the man's boxers, then giving the little twitch necessary to send the trousers pooling around Eames' ankles.

Now Eames was almost entirely bared, his cock hardening, pressing against the silk of his boxers. He was unmistakably turned on, standing before Arthur and staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and lust, his parted lips tempting Arthur almost past what he could stand.

But they had only gotten started and Arthur knew exactly what he wanted. What he intended.

"You..." Eames gasped, remaining unmoving but trembling ever so faintly, his pupils dilated, "You seem to be a bit overdressed, darling...."

Arthur smiled again, wondering if Eames even had the presence of mind to add it to his tally, and removed his hands from Eames' hips, reaching up to undo the tie he had loosened but not removed earlier in the evening. He'd had a reason for that.

"Take off your shoes and socks and get on the bed," he directed firmly, making sure that neither his voice nor his hands trembled as he pulled off his tie.

If anything Eames' eyes grew darker and he almost tripped over his own feet rushing to do as ordered. He looked as undone as he had in Arthur's dark hotel room after being dosed with Yusuf's compound, but for a different reason. A much more satisfying reason, as far as Arthur was concerned.

Once he was on Arthur's bed, pulling back the comforter to expose fine Egyptian cotton sheets, Eames sent Arthur a glance that was equal parts needy and defiant, as he stripped off his boxers and dropped them over the edge of the mattress.

Arthur's smirk widened, and he toed off his own shoes, padding to the bed in his stocking feet.

"What...?" Eames looked confused when Arthur remained clothed, remained standing, pressing against the bed and leaning toward him. Then, as Arthur carefully wrapped his own tie around Eames' head, the width of it covering his eyes, fastening it in the back with care not to catch any of the man's hair in the knot, Eames' mouth fell open, a sharp exhalation of understanding escaping him.

Trusting that Eames would let him know if this was not acceptable, Arthur straightened, just _looking_ at him for a moment.

He really did have a piece of art in his apartment, though Eames wouldn't be able to view it, for obvious reasons. The sight before his was incredible, Arthur thought, and he could feel his dick pushing hard against the front of his slacks.

His sheets were a deep hunter green, and Eames was all bare golden flesh against them. His hair was still tacky with pomade, but was rumpled from when he had pulled off his undershirt, from when Arthur had put the tie over his eyes. He was just as well sculpted as Arthur remembered, and now there was more of him to look at, his powerful thighs matching the strength of his arms, his stomach rippling with muscle. There was a light dusting of hair over the majority of his torso, neither too much nor too little, and his nipples were far more pink and more pert than Arthur had expected.

What _was_ about the same as he had expected, was Eames' cock. Arthur had never seen it, but he had already known that it would be thick, uncut, and something that he couldn't wait to get his hands on.

That was going to have to wait, though. Because there was something else that Arthur needed to do first. And that was put Eames' delicious, plush lips to good use.

"Arthur," Eames rasped, and it was the same as always only it was different. Richer, huskier, and far more intimate. "Arthur, don't leave me hanging here like this."

"Wasn't planning on it," Arthur replied, trying to sound tart but knowing that he only sounded turned on. He reached down and peeled off his socks, slacks shifting against his growing erection with maddening pressure, then moved onto the bed, crawled over Eames' partially prone body.

"How do you want me?" Eames murmured, and the very fact that he was asking sent a lick of heat through Arthur, prickling over his skin, hooking in his groin.

"Back against the pillows," Arthur directed, continuing to advance as Eames obeyed, then past that point, until his mouth was hovering over Eames'. He paused there, though. Because he had Eames naked and hard on his bed, but Eames was also blindfolded and there were some liberties that shouldn't be taken.

"Is this okay?" he whispered, feeling his breath breaking against Eames' chin, the heat rising between them. He was straddling Eames' hips, his hands to either side of the man's head, but they weren't yet touching anywhere. Arthur wouldn't allow himself to touch yet.

Instead of replying verbally, Eames reached up with one hand, sturdy fingers clasping the nape of Arthur's neck, and he tugged down at the same time he lifted his chin, surging up into what quickly became their first kiss.

Arthur took that as permission enough, and promptly stuck his tongue in Eames' mouth.

Eames was a good kisser; this Arthur had already anticipated. What he hadn't expected was that the man was also hungry, sloppy, passionate. His tongue twined around Arthur's, writhed its way into Arthur's mouth, and he let out a disconsolate whine when Arthur pulled away slightly. He wasn't done with Eames' mouth yet, was only shifting to get a better angle of attack, and Eames shuddered beneath him, fingers tightening on Arthur's neck as he ran his tongue wet and slick, first over the fat swell of Eames' full upper lip, then along the curve of his even fatter lower lip.

"Ah, God," Eames panted into Arthur's mouth, and that was the point at which Arthur sank his teeth into Eames' lower lip.

+++

With his eyes covered, it was as though Arthur had become Eames' entire world. Eames could see nothing. He could only smell Arthur. He could feel Arthur's body heat even though they were not touching anywhere other than their mouths and Eames' hand on Arthur's neck. And now... now he knew the _taste_ of Arthur.

Salt, mostly, from the french dip and the fries. Some spiciness that Eames placed as pepper. Some bitterness from the beer. And something else, something that was all Arthur, only Arthur.

Eames wished that he'd had this opportunity, kissing Arthur, back when he'd still been affected by Yusuf's compound... but that might have been too intense, might very well have driven him mad.

He felt a bit as though he was mad, right now, as Arthur nipped at his lips, thrust his tongue back into Eames' mouth. He arched, aching for the touch of Arthur's hands on him, for the feel of skin on skin. He was being kissed as sweetly and as thoroughly as he ever had at any previous point in his life, and it was amazing, but it wasn't... it just wasn't _enough_.

"Greedy," Arthur chided into his mouth, and Eames wondered if he'd spoken aloud or if he was just that easy to read.

Either way, Arthur suddenly settled across his hips, his clothed flanks resting on Eames' naked thighs, and Eames groaned, reaching up with both hands to grab at Arthur's bony but powerful shoulders.

Arthur may have blindfolded him, might be fully clothed yet and playing the dominance card, but he hadn't told Eames he couldn't move, couldn't touch him. And unless or until he did, Eames was _going_ to _touch_.

He was tempted for a moment to roll them both, to get Arthur pinned underneath him and to render the man as naked as he was... but he thought that if he tried Arthur would actually fight him on it. And that wasn't what they were doing here. Eames wasn't quite sure what they _were_ doing -- he suspected they were both making it up as they went along -- but he knew what this wasn't. He knew what he wasn't supposed to do.

Maybe later, maybe later there would be the time and place for such struggles, a spark of violence to add to the sexual stimulation of the encounter. They were two powerful men with powerful personalities, and it was going to be interesting, exciting, to discover the jagged edges where they came together. But right now it was Eames who had his eyes bound and it was Arthur who was clothed, who was on top of Eames. Right now he was perfectly willing to see where Arthur intended to take this.

Arthur ground down into Eames, his clothed erection hard and hot against Eames' lower belly, his tight rear brushing tauntingly against Eames' bare, hard cock.

"God," Eames expostulated again, gripping at Arthur's shoulders more tightly, their teeth clashing together before Arthur shifted and bit at his lower lip again. "Nghn, fuck!"

"We'll get there," Arthur growled against Eames' chin, his breath hot and damp. "But first I want your mouth on my dick."

Eames might have laughed at Arthur using that word if he hadn't already been so breathless, if he hadn't been rendered more so by this new demand. There was nothing about that that was a bad idea, and he tried to make his agreement clear as he bucked up against Arthur.

"Yes, please," he gasped. As Arthur levered up off of him he instinctively tried to open his eyes, was reminded forcibly of the fact that Arthur had effectively blindfolded him with his tie. And a shiver went through him at the thought of sucking Arthur's _dick_ like this. Blind, vulnerable, helpless... trusting Arthur not to give him more than he could take.

Well, in theory. Because even though Eames was dead sure that Arthur had quite a monster in his deliciously fitted slacks -- slacks that left very little to the imagination -- he himself had boatloads of experience and even more determination. In short, when it came to cock, it was highly unlikely that _anyone_ could give him more than he could take.

Without replying or speaking further Arthur shifted, up and back. Eames could hear the buzz of his zipper, could hear Arthur's breath catch, and his own cock twitched as he visualized Arthur reaching in, fishing himself out of his underwear, hissing as his own hand closed around his throbbing erection....

As if they knew what they were doing, even though neither of them said a word, Eames scooted down while Arthur moved up, his knees denting the mattress to either side of Eames' shoulders, and then the hot, smooth, wet head of his cock was pressing at the seam of Eames' lips, pulsing, waiting....

Eames wasn't going to make him wait for long; he was too hungry for it. This was always an awkward angle for a blow, but Eames knew how to make it work. Even with a cock as large as Arthur's proved to be; just as large as his imagination had supplied, and seeming larger, with his eyesight cut off, with only his other senses to depend upon.

It slid into his mouth, blunt head dragging along the roof of his mouth, his tongue spread to protect the shaft from his lower teeth. The salt and musk of Arthur filled his palate; it was all he could taste, all he could smell. And this... _this_ was what he had wanted, ever since that brief moment in Arthur's hotel room, back in Paris, when he had caught a hint of male arousal with his enhanced senses and then convinced himself afterward that he _must_ have imagined it.

"Oh, God," he could hear Arthur force out in a strangled groan, far above him.

Eames had his eyes tightly closed behind the makeshift blindfold, his mouth was full of Arthur's cock, and he was breathing heavily through his nose while he could still breathe. He reached up, grabbing at that tight little ass, gripping it through Arthur's slacks, trying to guide the man further down his throat.

They remained in this tableau for a few long breath-stealing moments, Arthur bobbing slightly in and out of Eames' mouth, Eames' fingers digging into the hard muscles of his ass, both of them loosing involuntary sounds of pleasure. All too soon, though, Arthur pulled back, pulled away, dragging his hard cock out of Eames' eager mouth.

He did pause long enough to run the tip of his erection against Eames' lips, painting them with his precome, but then he was shifting off of the other man and then off of the bed entirely.

"Hang on," he directed breathlessly, and Eames could hear the rustle of material. That was the only thing that kept him where he lay, kept him from tearing off the blindfold and tumbling Arthur; the knowledge that Arthur was currently getting undressed.

Eames reached down, grasping his own neglected cock and giving it a little tug or two before Arthur obviously caught him at it.

"Hey, cut that out," the other man growled, the rumble of his voice sending a burst of heated arousal through Eames. He stopped stroking, but he did lick his lips, tasting Arthur, savoring the thick flavor, letting the sexual stimulation dance over the surface of his skin even though he wasn't touching Arthur, even though he couldn't _see_ the man disrobing.

"You owe me a strip tease," he husked, his head shifting restlessly. Suddenly he very much wanted to remove the tie Arthur had blindfolded him with, wanted to see all that glorious pale flesh that was right there beside the bed. He did not, however, raise a hand to do so, because it was Arthur who had put it on.

As though he understood -- and he was incredibly perceptive, so he probably did -- Arthur reached down and with gentle hands, he freed Eames of the tie himself.

"I'll see what I can do," he replied, dryly but amusedly, as Eames blinked, waiting for his pupils to adjust.

+++

"Mm?" It was pretty obvious from the glazed look in Eames' eyes that he'd lost track of his place in the conversation. But considering the way that his eyes were moving over Arthur's body, the rising heat in his stare, Arthur didn't think that he minded too much. If anything, he found it rather erotically flattering.

Of course, Eames was far more attractive than Arthur might on his best day consider himself to be. Arthur took a moment to appreciate that fact, to admire the insanely sexy man in his bed. To view the mouth that had just been locked around his dick a minute or two ago, sucking as though Eames' life depended on it.

Eames' lips were ruddy, pressure-bruised, damp with saliva and Arthur's precome. His cheeks were flushed dark, his eyes gleaming even more darkly under heavy lids, and Arthur had managed to ruffle his hair further when he had removed the blindfold.

He'd probably wrecked that tie, Arthur thought absently, but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care. A blindfolded Eames had been incredibly hot, and that was a kink Arthur was planning on coming back to, possibly with Eames spread out on the bed, wrists and ankles bound, helpless against any pleasure that Arthur chose to inflict upon him; against the _many_ pleasures that Arthur intended to inflict upon him.

Well, that was, if this tryst wasn't going to just be a one-night stand.... But Arthur fully intended to make sure that the sex was so good that was no way Eames wouldn't want to continue coming together.

"Get back here," Eames murmured hoarsely, curling his fingers in a beckoning gesture, turning his head to one side on the pillow in a pose remarkably reminiscent of that quiet afternoon in Arthur's dark hotel room.

Tonight, though, Eames was naked, his cock jutting boldly between his drawn up thighs. And tonight Arthur could _touch_ , didn't have to be afraid he was going to hurt the other man.

Arthur eyed Eames' erection, licking his lips unconsciously. And he stood straight, proud, knowing that Eames was staring at his own hard dick. He knew without conceit that Eames had to be pleased by what he saw, and he reached down, clasping it in his hand, pressing it up against his belly, rolling his palm into it, feeling the last of Eames' spit on the shaft as it dried. On the bed Eames let out a low, rattling groan, watching Arthur's actions with avid eyes, his own hand doing similar things to his own cock. Holding... handling... fondling....

"Arthur...."

Arthur felt the corners of his lips curl up. He really loved the way Eames said his name. As though his raspy voice was intimately caressing the syllables. Like his name was a filthy secret between them. And that was _before_ they had ever had sex. Arthur didn't think he was ever going to be able to hear Eames speak his name without getting hard in the future. Perhaps he would have to ask Eames to begin calling him "darling" in public. Only, of course, not at all.

Between one thumping heartbeat and the next Arthur had rejoined Eames on the bed. There was no point to drawing this out, and he was atop the forger again, only this time they were _both naked_. Flesh on flesh, all the way down their chests and abdomens, their hot, hard, leaking cocks fencing between the press and slide of their stomachs, their skin slick with sweat and precome. Arthur settled, one of Eames' thighs between his, slanting their hips the opposite direction that he slanted their mouths, both areas of contact fitting together as perfectly as was possible when there were two solid male bodies vying for dominance, sharing the same space.

Eames hummed into this renewed kiss, wrapping his arms around Arthur's back, one ringing his shoulderblades, the other sliding down the small of his back to, not unexpectedly, grab at his ass again. Arthur had no problem with that; in fact he liked have his rear manhandled, and Eames had some manly hands on him.

Digging his knees into the mattress, Arthur humped his dick against Eames', building the pressure rather than relieving it, propping himself on one elbow, his other hand sliding into Eames' hair to ruffle it more soundly. The remaining product was gummy between his fingers, and he closed his grip, pulling at Eames' hair hard enough to disorder it.... This sharp tug had the added effect of causing Eames to yelp into his mouth and jolt underneath him, his hips rocking up into Arthur's, hard and heavy a few time. Arthur could feel the blurt of blood-hot precome breaking against the muscles of his stomach, and he wasn't sure which of them had done it.

Maybe both of them. Either way, it was unbearably hot, and Arthur was getting close to his limit on foreplay.

Fortunately for the sake of this impatience, he was in bed with another man. So when he pulled roughly at Eames' hair again, tilting his head to one side and sinking his teeth into the line of Eames' neck, teeth and lips rasping against stubble, Eames gave another shudder underneath him, and twisted so that his chin knocked into Arthur's head, choking out, "Fucking... uh, God, Arthur, fucking fuck me already."

Arthur licked at his bite mark, tongue hot and busy, then he lifted his head. "Are you asking, offering, ordering, or have you just got a filthy mouth?" he asked, hearing the throaty rasp of his own voice, his hips rocking down into Eames', his fingers combing almost violently through the other man's straight hair.

"All-all of the above," Eames gasped out, and now both of his hands were locked on Arthur's ass, his fingers flexing rhythmically, palms pressing heavy as he tried to increase the friction of Arthur's teasing thrusts.

"Mm." Arthur nipped at Eames' chin, dug blunt nails into his scalp, and humped down into him a couple more times. "I believe that that can be arranged."

+++

He wouldn't have wanted to admit it aloud, but Eames was relieved to hear that. He wasn't a man opposed to some good foreplay. He definitely enjoyed spending long, lazy, languid afternoons curled up in bed with a lover, touching, tasting, toying with one another, passing hours between orgasms, each one more intense than the one before as their bodies grew increasingly more sensitive....

But that was _after_ the initial orgasm. And when it had been as long as it had been since he'd last gotten laid, when he'd been thinking filthy thoughts about someone as long as he had Arthur... well, by that point a little kissing, a little cocksucking, some groping, and some vigorous frottage was plenty by way of foreplay.

Eames was naked and hard underneath an equally naked and hard Arthur. If he didn't get Arthur's dick inside of him soon, he was afraid he was going to do something embarrassing and premature. He would still let Arthur fuck him if he came early, of course, but it would be considerably less humiliating if he didn't pop off ahead of schedule.

Arthur was in motion, lying more heavily against Eames as he shifted, reached for the drawer of the small table beside his bed. When he stretched, this ground their groins together, and Eames caught his breath, sure that his eyes had just crossed. Arthur's other hand was still locked in his hair, and Eames was still palming that amazing ass, the muscles tight and hard under his clasping fingers.

His faith that Arthur was retrieving condoms and lube from the drawer was fulfilled when the point man returned with exactly these supplies clutched in his hand.

Dropping them on the mattress beside Eames' shoulder, Arthur grabbed at Eames' head, both hands pulling almost painfully at his hair, making his cock throb where it was pressed between their bellies, beside Arthur's own erection, and virtually attacked Eames' mouth with his own.

The kiss was rough, invasive, and altogether too brief by far. But when Arthur broke it to push himself up on his knees, bowing over Eames in a long, lean line, hands splayed over his pectorals, Eames couldn't bring himself to much mind. Even less so when Arthur's clever fingers tweaked at his nipples, tugging lightly at the crisp hairs around them, then raked short nails down the center of his chest.

"Shit," Eames hissed, jerking involuntarily under these ministrations, his hands now clutching at Arthur's hard thighs, digging into the taut muscles. "God _dammit_ , Arthur, I am _not_ a woman!"

Arthur chuckled, grinning down at him, and Eames stared, fascinated. Arthur's smiles had been well worth the noting, as he had known all along. The expression transformed him from a man who was handsome but far too serious into a man who was stunning, approachable, downright _beautiful_. Eames could lose himself in the dimples that creased Arthur's smooth cheeks, wanted to trace the lines with his fingertips... but that would require removing his hands from Arthur's hot, hard thighs... and that just wasn't happening.

"I am well aware of that, Eames," Arthur purred, and Eames felt the edge of all eight nails as they dented his ribs to either side of his chest, Arthur's thumbs rubbing at his nipples until they were so overstimulated he was almost ready to scream, was writhing against the mattress. "You don't really think I'd treat a woman like this, do you?"

"Some of them are up for it," Eames argued breathlessly, then he choked when Arthur grabbed his nipples and twisted them sharply enough to send flashes of both pleasure and pain lancing across his chest and down to his aching cock. "Oh, fuck!"

Instead of continuing their conversation -- and, really, what had they just been talking about? -- Arthur moved until he was kneeling between Eames' sprawled thighs. He bend to mouth at the indent between Eames' pectorals, kissing, licking, and nibbling his way down to his navel. Meanwhile, his hands stroked restlessly over Eames' torso, squeezing lightly at his hipbones, descending to caress his thighs, and completely bypassing his leaking cock.

"Shit! Arthur, please," Eames got out, the words a little garbled, as Arthur ran the tip of his tongue teasingly around his navel. And Arthur took pity on him, one hand closing tight around Eames' erection.

Eames arched, grabbing uselessly at the sheets beneath him, as Arthur fondled his cock, thumbing at the foreskin, smearing hot, thick precome around the flushed head.

"If you put your mouth on me, I will come right now," he warned, peering down at Arthur, knowing that his face and chest were already covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. He could feel it damping his temples, pooling in the hollow between his collarbones.

Arthur smirked up at him wickedly, obviously considering doing just that. He was as flushed as Eames knew he himself to be, washed in warmth all the way to the tips of his ears, down his neck to his chest, and his hair was starting to fall around his forehead, the pomade in it beginning to give out.

"Arthur," Eames husked, not sure if he was requesting or rejecting. He gaze switched from Arthur's steamy, dark brown eyes to those bright red cupid's bow lips, and he could just _imagine_ them parting, sliding down his shaft.... And then Arthur licked those same lips and Eames nearly lost it, thick precome trickling down Arthur's knuckles, but Arthur momentarily tightened his grip, at the base of Eames' cock this time, then shifted his hand down to cup Eames' balls, rolling them in his palm just a little too forcefully to be termed careful.

"Ah." Eames flailed, then got his hand on the tube near his shoulder. He held it down to Arthur unceremoniously, startled but not really surprised to see that his hand was trembling slightly.

Arthur snatched it from his fingers, and used both hands to twist off the cap. Eames grinned when he noticed that Arthur's hands weren't completely steady either. Then he stretched his grin into a smirk as Arthur squeezed lubricant onto the first two fingers of his right hand, hitching up his thigh, his heel catching in the expensive sheets that Arthur obviously didn't mind staining with sweat and sex. But he couldn't keep up the expression as Arthur went right there, running his fingers between Eames' ass cheeks without hesitation, liberally greasing him up. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting sharply, as heat and quivering arousal surged through him, radiating out from his ass hole.

"All right?" Arthur murmured, peering at Eames narrowly. He didn't seem concerned, but he was watchful. His fingers were motionless, resting _right there_ , and Eames was itching under every centimeter of his skin.

"Arthur," Eames said smoothly, meeting Arthur eyes from under heavy lids, "I would take it as a personal favor to me if you would refrain from ever asking me that question again while we are fucking."

Arthur arched one dark, winged brow, then he smiled down at Eames, dimples deeply bracketing this slice of his sharp white teeth. "Duly noted," he said, and then he stuck two fingers in Eames' ass.

+++

Eames let out a sound Arthur would never have thought the man to be capable of and his spine arched, not _away_ from the penetration, but toward it.

Arthur decided that Eames knew what he was talking about; he wasn't going to need Arthur to ask him if he was okay at any point in the proceedings. Which was definitely a good thing. It would save them time and save Arthur air he could be using to fuck the breath out of Eames in turn.

Speaking of fucking, Arthur knew they both would be happier the sooner he got on that. Working more lube into Eames, he could feel the tight, incredibly tantalizing clench of his sphincter, the smooth hotness inside him. He was generous with the lube, careless of his expensive sheets, because this was going to be one amazing screw and the quicker he got in Eames' glorious ass the better.

"That's... good enough," Eames grunted out, one hand grabbing at his own thigh, lifting it, exposing him more readily to Arthur's ministrations, the other clutching at the mattress beneath him. "Come on, Arthur, put it in me!"

Arthur reclaimed his hand, wiping it on his own bare thigh, then grabbing Eames hips and tugging at him. "Roll," he directed. "I want you on your stomach."

Eames squinted at him, but evidently decided it wasn't worth arguing over. They shifted awkwardly, managing to get Eames on his belly and Arthur once more kneeling between his spread thighs. Arthur reached for the condoms, but paused with an unopened package in his hand, captivated by the dimples in the smooth flesh above Eames' rear.

"You have an ass built to be fucked," he growled, bending and tonguing one of those dimples, then the other.

"So do you," he heard Eames rumble into the pillow under his face, and he shivered at the dark promise in the man's voice. Oh, yeah. There would be time for that too. And he was looking forward to it just as much as he was looking forward to driving his own hard cock deep into the tight ass spread open before him right now.

That was later, though, and this was now. Reaching past Eames' shoulder, taking another short moment to appreciate the way those broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, just before the slight flare of Eames' gorgeous rear, Arthur grabbed the pillow.

"Here," he rumbled, tugging at one of Eames' hips with the hand not holding the pillow. "Up."

Before Eames could protest, Arthur slid the pillow under his hips, making sure that his cock was tilted up so that it would rub between the plush swell of the pillow and his own hard lower belly.

"Dammit, Arthur," Eames gasped out, twisting enough so that he could glower at him over his shoulder. "I'm not a fucking _virgin_."

Arthur smacked one firm, nicely rounded ass cheek, delighting in the ripe sound that his palm made striking it. "Obviously. But this is more comfortable for _me_. So suck it up."

Without waiting for a response, he rolled on a condom, then slicked his own dick with plenty of lubricant, hissing at the feel of the cool liquid even through the latex. Which hadn't exactly been a pleasure to deal with either, but at least the sudden chill of both condom and lube took a little of the edge off.

Eames' was grinding mindlessly into the pillow, obviously at least as ready as Eames was, so Arthur wasted no more time. He grabbed hold of one ass cheek with the hand not covered in lube, positioning himself with the other as he moved to stretch himself out over the other man's muscular body, and then he was punching inside.

They both groaned in unison as Arthur sank, slow but unrelenting, into the tight heat of Eames' ass. By the time Arthur was seated all the way -- his pubes crushed against those tempting dimples, toes straining against the sheets as he sought leverage, his chest pressed to Eames' broad back -- they were both trembling. Arthur had propped himself with one hand, his forehead bowed to the nape of Eames' neck, still clutching at Eames' ass with a death grip with the other hand.

"Fucking... _move_... already," Eames ground out after they had both taken a few shuddering breaths together, and he punctuated this demand by doing his best to grind his ass back into the penetration, even though he really didn't have much leverage with Arthur draped over his back the way he was.

Rather than waste breath retorting, Arthur did as directed. Getting his knees properly underneath himself, he set about plowing Eames' ass in earnest.

That might have been a crude way for him to think of it, granted. But that was what he was doing. He was fucking Eames. They were _fucking_. And quite vigorously, at that.

It wasn't as though Eames just lay there under him and took it. Even though Arthur had him pretty well pinned down, the man was a marvel of motion, his hips flexing in counterpoint to Arthur's steady thrusts, hands grabbing at whatever they could reach, before one shoved its way down between Eames' belly and the pillow, his elbow jerking as he worked to bring himself off while Arthur was still pounding into him. And the _sounds_ the man was making.... God. Guttural and demanding and erotic in the extreme. It was almost as stimulating as the tight clench of his perfect ass around Arthur's driving dick.

Arthur could feel his orgasm building in his balls, drawing them up close to his body, and he reached up with the hand not propped in the mattress, sinking his fingers into Eames' hair and pulling back hard while he set his teeth to the tender curve where the man's shoulder met his neck, biting down almost sharply enough to draw blood.

This was evidently what Eames needed to bring him over the edge. He bowed underneath Arthur, smothering a loud cry into the mattress, and Arthur could feel his internal muscles clamping down as his climax rocked through him, shaking him against the bed, beneath Arthur, and going most of the way to bringing Arthur off as well.

All that it took Arthur after that was a couple of quick, hard thrusts, and he was muffling his own shout in the flexing muscles of Eames' back, disordering the sheets with his feet and his knees as he did his best to fuck in deeper, harder, faster, when there was just no physically possible way that his body could _do_ what he was asking of it.

He came deep inside of Eames, and visualized shooting into the man's ass instead of the condom, staining him internally, marking his as Arthur's even though no one would ever see it. Maybe in the dreamshare... maybe at some point in the future, if they were both clean and exclusive....

And then lucid thought and imagination were swept away in a rush of explosive crimson and bright flaring pleasure, that shook Arthur down to his bones, he swore. He tensed all over, every muscle straining, and just when he thought he could take no more pressure, no more blinding pleasure, it all escaped him in a rush, satiated lassitude melting all his limbs instead, and he collapsed down onto Eames in a sodden, shuddering heap, barely aware of doing so.

"Arthur."

"Mm." That rough, husky voice was familiar.... the hot, smooth, sweat-soaked plane of flesh beneath his face was someone's back....

"Arthur, please, this is charming, but I'm lying in a wet spot, and I don't like to just tip you off of me when your cock is still in my ass."

Arthur frowned and shifted, realizing the truth of that last statement. "Obviously I didn't fuck you hard enough if you're still able to complain," he grumbled, carefully pulling out and resting on his side next to Eames, dealing with the condom first and foremost. After knotting the end he twisted to drop it over the edge of the mattress, not caring enough about neatness to propel him out of bed. In fact, he was hardly able to raise his head, didn't bother to try.

Eames rolled onto his side as well, facing Arthur, and he smiled, looking blissful and fucked out. "Far be it from me to talk you out of trying harder," he purred, his voice just as sated as he appeared, grabbing the pillow he'd come on and tossing it over the edge of the bed to join his own boxers and Arthur's tied off condom. "But I'd like to state for the record that those of us polled think you did a bang up job."

Arthur grinned, feeling a warmth swell in his chest. "You, your ass, and your dick?"

Eames laughed delightedly, and slung a heavy arm around Arthur's waist, drawing him in, though it was as much Arthur's doing as it was Eames' when their mouths met in a moist, hot, open-mouthed kiss.

"What's your policy on post-coital cuddling?" Eames murmured against Arthur's chin, nuzzling at his cheek with the pointed tip of his nose. That... shouldn't be sexy, Arthur thought. And yet somehow it was.

He gave the question serious consideration. Honestly, his "policy" varied, depending on who he was in bed with and what sort of relationship they had. This thing with Eames was brand new, somewhat tentative, and largely unknown. Arthur was pretty sure that he had no intention of letting the man out of his sight for a good long while, if ever. But he also thought that as they got to know one other, they'd each of them come to figure out what they wanted, whether they _did_ intend this to be a long term thing.

Arthur hoped that this was going to last, even though there was no guarantee of this. But in the meantime, he was going to take it as it came and play it by ear. So he answered honestly, and didn't just say what he thought was expected of him or what he thought would be for the best.

"Cuddling, if you can stand it. But not until after we've washed up."

"Oh, thank God," Eames groaned, sounding delighted and relieved at the same time. "I've got spunk all over my stomach. And I'm dying to see you with the pomade washed out of your hair."

Arthur actually laughed at this. He'd really only meant a few swipes of a warm, damp washcloth... but the thought of squeezing together with Eames in his shower stall, under the pulsing water, their hands on one another, rubbing together, kissing with no sense of urgency....

Well. There was no way he was going to pass up _that_ opportunity.

+++

"You do have art." Eames was wandering through Arthur's apartment the morning following a night of much glorious fucking, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms and clutching a mug of steaming black coffee. His Mum would have been appalled by this last, but then, she'd probably have been more appalled by the gay sex, and Eames had picked up the coffee habit once he'd discovered it was nearly impossible to get a good cup of tea anywhere outside of Great Britain. At least Arthur had the quality stuff; not that Eames would have expected anything less of the man.

The gay sex... that was a habit he'd picked up considerably earlier. And his Mum didn't need to know anything about that. Not that it hadn't been years since he had last spoken to the woman anyway.

He tilted his head, trying to make sense of a particularly colorful abstract print, a splash of garish color in a stark black frame, hanging on the cream tone wall. "Though I'd be hard pressed to call it an actual collection."

Arthur was sitting on his sleek leather sofa, tapping away on his laptop, already dressed for the day in pressed slacks and a white button-up shirt. Then again, he had bare feet, his hair was free of product, and his cuffs were undone. So perhaps he wasn't planning on leaving the apartment just yet after all.

He looked up at Eames, smiling softly, his hair falling across his forehead in a soft disarray that made Eames' fingers twitch to touch, to twine, to ever so gently tug....

"Arthur," Eames rumbled, crossing and sitting on the sofa beside Arthur, setting his mug on the glass coffee table. "This is your home, yes? You live here?"

Arthur looked confused. He closed and set aside his computer, meeting Eames' gaze steadily as he nodded. "Yes. Of course it is."

"And I'm here," Eames pursued, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa, leaning toward Arthur but not yet touching him anywhere. Even though he dearly wanted to "You brought me here."

Arthur was beginning to look more bemused than confused, which was a blessing. But he also appeared to know more about this subject than Eames did, and that was a more than a little annoying at the same time it was a bit comforting. "Is that a problem?"

Eames shook his head, his own loose bangs falling over the furrows he knew were creasing his forehead. He didn't bother shoving them back, knowing that would only muss his hair further. Even though the way that Arthur was eyeing him made him think that this might not be an entirely bad thing.... But they had a serious topic to discuss before there was any more fucking to be done.

"Why did you do it?" he asked bluntly.

Arthur tilted his head, licked his lips, then smiled. "Because I wanted to. And because you came."

Eames sat still, his brain working, trying to figure out _when_ things had changed more than _how_ they had changed. Arthur sat there, inscrutable, silently letting Eames think, his expression tranquil, at ease, even though his eyes were sharp and narrow, intent.

Really, though, Eames was fairly sure of the moment things had shifted between them, thought that he knew what the catalyst had been.

"Is this because of that day I got dosed with one of Yusuf's compounds?" he ventured, reaching forward and planting a hand on one hard knee, enjoying the physical reality of Arthur's leg under his palm, feeling his body heat meeting and matching Eames' own through the material of his slacks.

"Perhaps," Arthur replied honestly, his gaze not leaving Eames'. "I think that's definitely the day it started. That was the first time I'd ever really seen you as a man, rather than as a co-worker. The first time I realized there was someone I might like to get to know behind the mask you present to the world in general."

Eames grimaced faintly, but he couldn't very well argue that. "Fair enough," he murmured, beginning to grow uncomfortable with the level of emotional openness in the room. Sometimes it was better to let things slip into the cracks where words were not spoken. Then again, it had been _Eames_ who had asked the question. Arthur hadn't volunteered in the information.

"I'm glad you agreed to come home with me," Arthur continued, and he looked as though he was ready to let the subject go as well, even if he wasn't as uncomfortable with it as Eames was. "I wasn't sure you would."

Eames bit his lip, watched the way Arthur's eyes flared with heat, fixing on his mouth.

"And pass up the opportunity to see you with bed-head, darling?" he rumbled. Teasingly, not mockingly. He meant what he said, and more, and they both knew it.

Arthur gave him a coy glance through dark lashes, dimples coming into play as his mouth curved up in a genuine smile. Eames realized with a bit of surprise that he had lost his count. And that was all right. Because he was going to dedicate all of his energy to inspiring as many real smiles, smirks, and barks of laughter out of Arthur as possible, for as long as Arthur would let him.

"But why wait?" he wondered. The disaster with the compound had happened several days before they had implemented and completed the Fischer job.

Arthur frowned slightly and even with the stubble and the loose hair, Eames could see the efficient, ruthless point man that he had worked with every day during the Fischer job. "Eames, we were performing inception. It could have been disastrous to let _anything_ distract us before we were finished."

Eames was nodding before Arthur even finished talking, because he recognized the truth of that statement.

"All right then," he said easily, and he plucked at the inseam of Arthur's slacks with a restless thumb. "I'll give you that. But why _now_?"

Arthur shook his head. "Why _not_ now?" he asked solemnly. "If I'd let you walk away at LAX without saying anything, without inviting you back here, when would I have seen you again?"

Eames had no reply to that, and Arthur smiled at him. It could have been smile number seven, or smile number ten. Eames didn't really care, as long as Arthur continued to smile. At him.

"How does pizza sound for lunch?" Arthur asked, and he reached down to clasp Eames' hand in his own. "And then afterward you can take me in the bedroom and keep a few of your more outrageous promises regarding your sexual prowess. Then, this evening, maybe we can go and spend some of Saito's money on groceries."

"How delightfully domestic," Eames cheered, then he grinned, leaning forward to kiss away the faintly disapproving frown his words brought to Arthur's incredibly adorable face.

"Absolutely, Arthur. I think that I must insist we follow your brilliant plan."

[end]

**Author's Note:**

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> Gorgeous banner by Too Rational!


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